Friday, August 1, 2014

First Shot (30)

When the push and
tug of circumstances appeared to be scattering beyond Blow's
unschooled managing skills, he'd come to know that his best friends
at these moments were a ballpoint pen and a canary yellow legal pad.
He was with them at his desk. To the pad's left, within reach, were
his cold coffee cup with the tip of a copper wire from the drowned
audio transmitter visible above the rim, and, next to the cup, the
GPS tracker in the paper bag he'd just now brought in from where he
found it at his front door.

Avoiding any
variations of the word prioritize, which sounded annoyingly
bureaucratic to his ear, he regarded the list he was making as a
means of determining urgency and importance. He'd learned somewhere
along the line he was a visual learner. Forcing himself to write
things down helped him think. He listed items as he thought of them,
then ranked them with numbers, often finding they'd sorted themselves
in the order with which they came to mind.

First to appear on
this pad was a reminder to create a separate account for the $10,000
Jamie Moriarty said she'd deposited in his office account. This was a
precaution in the event his unusual contract with Moriarty went
asunder. It seemed entirely possible she might be setting him up,
either to lead her to the student she was seeking, or as a conduit
for moving illegal funds, or even as an agent in some scheme she
hadn't revealed nor he anticipated. The musket hunt was no doubt one
of many endeavors involving her and her anonymous associates. Blow
would ask the bank to alert him if any new deposits showed up from
the Caymans.

Flowers for Rose.
Her epiphany rambled around in Blow's head. So unexpected, and yet,
upon reflection, so like her. He knew she'd not have told him were
there no way to verify. The Easter jazz show would keep a record of
its playlists. She'd assume correctly he would trust she named her
novel's character not knowing an obscure musician shared the strange
moniker. Blow's incipient metaphysical thinking extended scarcely
beyond a muddled rejection of superstition. The muddling, he knew,
bespoke a chickenshit hesitation to take a stand one way or the
other. He and Rose had never mentioned religion in their years of
friendship. Her independence and worldly circumstances suggested
nothing more defined than an agnostic outlook, and her revelation
caught him up short. He smiled now at the irony.

Salzwedel.
Surely he knew the identity of the student who claimed to have the
musket that fired the first shot of--acknowledging if not agreeing
with Moriarty's point--the American War for Independence. Salzwedel
had protected the student, which apparently led to acrimony with Newt
Gunther, which worried Salzwedel it might be seen as a motive for
murder. Moriarty said she thinks Himmler killed Gunther after Gunther
demanded more than whatever Himmler was willing or able to pay for
the musket. Moriarty admitted killing Himmler but didn't say why. Now
she, after failing to find the musket in the school or at either
Gunther's or Salzwedel's homes would be trying to learn the student's
identity.

Questions:Who broke into the school, Moriarty or Himmler? Were they
after the musket or the student's identity, or both? Who was Himmler
working for? Is there a Sons of Lexington, and if so, is it a CIA
front? Did Himmler have a backup? Answer: Of course. Can Moriarty be
trusted? Answer: Do not shit yourself.

Get with
Caldwell.What's with
the Himmler murder?

Tomorrow morning.
Read newspapers, every one you can find.

Assuming
he'd forgotten at least one important question or task to add, Blow
nonetheless decided he'd gotten enough down to help him move in the
right direction to best serve his clients. He scanned the list
carefully, hovering over each item with his pen. Finally, at
Salzwedel, he jotted
the numeral one in front of the name and circled it heavily.